


That's the Kind of Love

by Irrelevancy



Category: One Piece
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Beads, Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Choking, Cock Warming, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Consensual Somnophilia, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, Earplugs, Electricity, Electroplay, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Forced Orgasm, Fucked Unconscious, Gangbang, Haki (One Piece), Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Kissing, M/M, Manhandling, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Roleplay, Subspace, Threesome - M/M/M, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: "Marco gets used randomly and frequently at a cross-crew party with the Red-Haired Pirates."--from "At Every Opportunity" by wormhourdeluxeNow with bonus chapter 2!
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Benn Beckmann, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Benn Beckmann, Fushichou Marco | Phoenix Marco/Other(s)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wormhourdeluxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormhourdeluxe/gifts), [Chromi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [At Every Opportunity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551344) by [wormhourdeluxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormhourdeluxe/pseuds/wormhourdeluxe). 



> MERRY CHRISTMAS
> 
> this is really just a marco gangbang and,,, very little else. check all the tags.

“Let me tell you exactly what’s going to happen tonight.”

That _shift_ Shanks could pull—from genial and foolishly happy, to the phantom hand that could close so neatly around Marco’s throat and toss Marco at his feet—was always astonishing to witness. Marco could practically feel his own pupils dilating. When Shanks stood, Marco, like gear wheels with teeth all snugly slotted and beckoned to motion by Shanks’ order, stood with him.

“Whitebeard Pirates First Division Commander, Marco the Phoenix.” And Marco knew exactly what that tone of light disdain tasted like on Shanks’ tongue, felt his own mouth fall open, tongue press flat against the inside of his bottom teeth at the memory. “Captured by an enemy Yonko and his crew.”

 _Oh, y’know, it’s who you’d expect_ , was what Shanks had said, before he’d donned this role of the dangerous foe. Or rather, given that he’d drawn all the curtains in the hotel lobby beforehand, he’d _shed_ the friendly grin like an old favorite coat. Before he’d revealed the sharp-creased shoulders, the pectorals and bicep so capable of restraint, in all directions, underneath. _Some people weren’t into it and that’s fine, so obviously they’re not here. Some people were really into it, had friends who were into it, et cetera—_

 _How many_? Marco had had to ask again, because even the friendlier version of Shanks liked to make him squirm.

_Hm, twenty, I think. Counting myself._

Twenty members and associates of a rival crew, all in one room, with Marco and only Marco at the center of all their focus. All their _power,_ because it sure took power to run with Red Hair Shanks.

“We don’t stop until every one of them has come, obviously,” Shank purred, stroking that hand down the center of Marco’s chest, touching the top of Pop’s crest. He popped a button that Marco had done up after the shower, in an effort to appear a little more appropriately dressed to sit at a posh hotel bar. It needn’t have mattered, obviously, since Shanks had sent all the staff away, and was happily undressing him in the middle of all the mahogany. “You can come too, as many times as you like. Our crew is generous like that.”

Another button undone, and Marco squeezed his eyes shut with a shiver that traveled down the length of his whole torso. When Shanks’ hand followed, and undid the button of Marco’s pants, Marco felt every single muscle in his back tense, almost painfully, then _relax_.

“Will they,” he asked quietly, almost hopefully, “hurt me?”

Marco pulled all loose before him, Shanks took a small step back and looked considering.

“No,” he finally decided, even though Marco _knew_ that was something Shanks must’ve already planned for with meticulous thought, and Marco just barely swallowed down a whimper. “Because that’s so much worse for you, isn’t it? If we show you a good time, and you decide you _like_ it.”

He told Marco to put the blindfold on himself. It was an act that felt more naked than the stripping just before. Shanks held out two spongey little earplugs as well, before the length of black satin closed over Marco’s vision, and Marco nodded assent with a liquid spine.

“They _will_ exhaust you though,” Shanks warned, before everything went on. Marco stood naked, showered and stretched in front of those double doors to the banquet room. If all went as planned, Marco suddenly realized, he may never know what the inside of that banquet room looked like. “They’re on orders to do that. See how much endurance that fruit of yours gives you, huh? But—”

One earplug went in. It expanded in Marco’s ear canal with a disconcerting pressure, and just like that, half of the entire room was closed off from his left side. With trembling hands and an eager, _eager_ throat swallowing behind parted lips, Marco secured the blindfold over his eyes. One more sense gone.

“—I’ll make you a promise. I won’t come until the end. I’ll be your last cock this evening.”

Not only would that be a comforting cue for Marco to know the scene was soon to end, but it was also unbelievably _hot_. Marco indulged in the thought of Shanks standing amongst his men, attention on Marco and his own need untouched, waiting his turn.

“That sound good to you?” Shanks asked by Marco’s other ear. The earplug, squeezed between Shanks’ fingertips, seemed to be whispering its promised silence. “Tell me a color, Marco.”

If there was something that seemed like hesitation, it was only the moment and _effort_ necessary to chase back a gone breath, enough to say:

“ _Green_.”

Silence expanded.

* * *

Hands took him immediately. They weren’t cruel (Shanks’ people never were), but they weren’t particularly careful either—not set to hurt, but to _take_. This was a rival crew of infamy, Marco went cold _hot_ to think. These were long-time players whose presences couldn’t help but _react_ to Marco the Phoenix’s; these were people he’s surely beaten and scarred. And here he was for their zealous taking.

Marco counted three pairs of hands moving him, a couple more just touching. When they laid him down and spread him out on what felt like a chaise lounge, there were, immediately, a lot more hands.

Fingers dipped into his mouth like they were sampling a platter. Some lingered, some didn’t. The lingering ones took to gliding over his cheeks and teeth, finding his tongue and the precise line that they’d have to cross to get Marco gagging. Then they teased across that line in unpredictable, pumping strokes, until saliva leaked and smeared all over the corners of Marco’s mouth, and Marco’s teeth unwittingly snapped. Enamel hit hard surface, impenetrable itself but perfectly willing to penetrate the seal of Marco’s lips and _oh_ , that’s what armament haki tasted like. Warm matte metal.

Fingers also found his nipples, tweaking and flicking. One particular set of hands, with broad knuckles and rope callouses, found it liked the way Marco squirmed and choked some more around the fingers in his mouth when it took up a rapid back-and-forth, gliding motion. The sensation pooled quick and Marco’s nipple hardened. Then the sensation got unbearable, pulling high-throated whines from Marco’s throat as Marco arched, wanting _harder, mor_ e but being denied it. Nothing but the dry rub of skin on nerves, and Marco’s spine in frustrated, jerking arches.

There were fingers, needless to say, at his cock. Actually, there were more fingers around his _thighs_ , pulling them apart and then further than apart. It was like every pair of hands that’s ever touched the Red Force’s decks also, for some reason, craved to touch the skin on the inside of Marco’s legs. They soothed, they massaged, they tickled, they _slapped_. And then they kept going, on soft skin, on rubberbanding tendons.

When the first finger, slick with warm oil, suddenly breached Marco’s hole, all the hands left Marco’s mouth, leaving his tongue in startled suspension between his teeth. Instead, a large, foreign palm slid firmly over Marco’s throat—caught—and _kept_ him there. Breathing now took effort, and Marco sucked in a wheezing breath as that single finger underneath slid fully into him. Curled. Twisted. Petted around. One more finger returned to his mouth, hooking down between his lip and bottom teeth, to just happily stroke at the warm flesh there.

With barely a warning touch to his rim, another finger joined the one in his ass—from a different hand. This finger was thicker, stubbier. Marco could feel every deep divot of flesh between knuckles as it pushed into him. Muffled voices increased briefly in volume on the other side of Marco’s earplugs, and then suddenly those hands—grasping tight around his thighs—pulled Marco’s legs up and over, until Marco was bent at the small of his back and his hole, still insistently stuffed with the two fingers, was lifted up and exposed for all to see. Marco struggled, choking on a half-inhale and on that hand on his esophagus. All his twisting motions achieved were the fingers sliding slightly _apart_ , and warm matte metal shoving more sternly down his shoulders on the chaise.

Lubricant, cooler this time without a hand to warm it up, was poured directly onto his hole. Marco was pretty sure he hissed, and pretty sure the muffled noise he could hear was laughter. Going hot in humiliation, Marco tried to twist his hips away, and—the lubricant didn’t stop pouring soon enough. Before much of it could trickle too far off though, the two fingers eagerly pumped the gliding liquid right back into Marco. They— _oh_ , three fingers now—scooped up the excess from all around Marco’s ass, on the cheeks, and pushed them— _four_ —past Marco’s rapidly stretching rim. Hands _pulled_ , and Marco stuttered out a cry at how _spread_ he felt, four fingers from four separate hands each fucking in and out of him at different tempos, each caressing vigorously along his inner walls.

Nails—smoothed, but still lengthy, belonging to a cartographer maybe, a chef perhaps, but not a ropes-person out on the deck all day where the length of keratin would interfere with work—scratched softly down his balls and found the fever-hot skin of his perineum. They gathered bits of that skin between them and _pinched_. Not hard, not soft. Enough to make Marco spasm again against the hands holding him, and feel all their answering squeeze of constraint.

The hand on his chest—was it the same one as earlier?—secured a good grip on his nipple, and _pulled_. And Marco was at such an angle that precome gushed, startled and startling, from the tip of his cock, dripping down onto his chest. The warm drops took a second to register, but once they did, they felt _branding_ , excruciatingly so; Marco could only imagine the number of pairs of eyes—god, _twenty_ —watching that evidence of his, of his need, of his _fev_ er paint the mark of Whitebeard on his skin. Someone’s thumb descended to smear it in.

And then, to Marco’s gasping surprise, a mouth sealed over his lips in an upside down, yet still very sweet kiss.

It wasn’t Shanks, that much was obvious. It was a wide, thin mouth, but very generous in its warm motions. There was the lightest scrape of stubble against Marco’s own, and Marco craned his neck up (the collaring hand now turned soothing, giving his airway a little break and just rubbing up and down over Marco’s right carotid with flat, smoothed callouses), only too happy to indulge the kisser’s suckling lips and lapping tongue. Shanks, he thought, would love the sight of this.

One more hand wrapped big and tight around Marco’s cock, and began, quite suddenly, to stroke him off. It had coated its palm with lubricant, so the glide was good and thick and _wet_ , also quite meanly determined in its speed. The application of sensation aimed so abruptly for orgasm made Marco’s legs kick out uncontrollably (though caught and controlled, of course). This wasn’t, he thought wildly, _fair_. They had barely gotten started and someone was already going to make him come?

But then, the memory of Shanks and his impish grin loomed large in Marco’s mind. _As many times as you like_ , wasn’t that what he said? _Our crew is generous—_? That was one word for this, Marco supposed, as the hand kept stroking and all of his abdominal muscles flexed, _hard_ , the hurting intensity seizing like a cramp at all the fucking _friction_ all around his cock—and _shit, fuck_ , Marco was _coming_ —

—and he _came_ , more warm liquid caught by giddy hands and smeared along exactly where Marco knew his tattoo was drawn and the stripping hand still wasn’t _stopping_ —

—he _screamed_ —

—still with the _stroking_ , the fist so wet Marco could hear the lewd squelching in his mind. He could also _feel_ a hand, four fingers held out flat, _slapping_ at the come on his chest like a kid might slap at freshly wetted sand on a beach and—fuck, they were _t_ _oy_ _ing_ with him. They were insistently pulling Marco’s nails from where they’d gouged into his palm and wrapping Marco’s hands around their own cocks, even as the hand on Marco’s wouldn’t stop and the _sensations_ , the sheer heat burning down from his cheeks to his chest was so much he could do nothing but squeeze at what was in his grip and feel the condescending-encouraging- _humiliating_ -friendly pats on his knuckles and—

A mouth closed over Marco’s neck just as somebody’s thumb pressed _hard_ into Marco’s slit. A different hand at the base of Marco’s cock squeezed and _twisted_ and—

It was a feeling like an orgasm, but _bad_ , in the way it slammed up against a dam at the very base of Marco’s stomach. Only a few more ropes of come came leaking out of Marco’s tip, the rest of the orgasm feeling very much like a dirty backstreet _punch_ to Marco’s insides. Marco couldn’t help but react with the violence he’d been long-trained in, but these were _Shanks’_ people—his tensing grips were caught and mediated between fingers so they didn’t damage much more sensitive organs. His kicking feet were caught and held over broad, meaty shoulders. The hands had stilled on his cock ( _finally_ , Marco could’ve sobbed in relief) and also in his ass. Marco _felt_ , keenly, those four fingers each finding a cardinal direction to pull in.

A head—unmistakable, attached to the shoulders that his knees were now bent and held over—lowered between his legs, and that was a _tongue_ dipping into him.

It _swiped_ , with intent, between the fingers holding Marco agape and _god_ , there was lube there and sweat and surely some of that mess from Marco’s orgasms and surely it was _filthy_. But that mouth sealed hot over his hole, as best it could over the fingers also hooked in Marco, and from all those sensitive nerve endings Marco could feel whoever it was between his legs _laughing_. Hearty guffaws, the typical affair of the Red Hair Pirates, that vibrated up Marco’s already buzzing thighs, shaking Marco’s entire lower half and what the fuck was so _funny_ , that twenty people above him could be enjoying at Marco’s expense, standing all around him in this overheating circle all fucking _chortling_ while one of their own had a tongue wetly _tasting_ at Marco’s insides. Dripping heat. Still aching something fierce from the unwanted orgasms and Marco started yanking at the restraining hands again and this time it felt like he was maybe getting somewhere and—

The tongue, the head, the fingers all went at once. As did every pair of hands on him, leaving Marco feeling all of a sudden disconcertingly unmoored, with no sight and sound, and just the heat of his panting breath in front of his face. Like he’d been terrifyingly _unclaimed_ —that drew a needy mewl from his throat, one that he’d never _ever_ admit to for the rest of his life and hopefully, Shanks’ crew would be merciful enough to never bring up—

The grip that wrapped so tightly around his ankles came as a gift. They pulled, and Marco went willingly with a groan, pliant body slipping down the length of the chaise until his ass could feel the cool edge down the long end and his head too lied flat. The hands yanked again, and Marco was rotated, maybe thirty degrees to one side, so his head now too hung over the chaise.

Hands—and here they were, all back again, the touching and wrapping around him like skinning dipping in a kelp forest, which Marco could barely remember from way, _way_ long ago—covered his thighs, his face. And two dicks were unceremoniously thrust in him, one in his ass and one in his mouth.

And that, Marco thought, in quickly bubbling delirium, was the start of the fucking.

 _Finally_ , was his first follow-up thought, because wasn’t that what he’d told Shanks, arriving at that harbor that afternoon? After making a show of grumpily tossing his overnight bag to Shanks, Marco had made it quite clear how he expected the evening to go, especially after he’s gone through the effort of flying for nine straight hours, through _six_ actual blizzards, to answer Shanks’ single booty call. He’d wanted so little else than a proper fuck from Red Hair, and thought the entire way to the hotel that that’s what he’d be getting.

(Rather—he’d thought that was _all_ that he’d be getting.)

 _Oh, fuck_ , was his next thought, because his abs were still smarting and so was his dick, but Marco had always been built in such a way that the moment a hard, hot length stroked over his tastebuds, Marco’s dick jumped in aching interest. That, plus the girth of the cock happily dragging in, then out past Marco’s rim that could still feel the phantom pull of fingers, lap of tongue, made Marco _keen._ Which just made that cock push more eagerly into the open channel of Marco’s throat until he gagged, choking—

—and choking, and choking, because the cock in his throat wasn’t _moving_ , unlike the one now happily fucking Marco with sharp snaps of hips that slapped stingingly against the meat of Marco’s ass. Tears wetted his blindfold, and Marco couldn’t fucking _breathe_ , so he moved to shove the cock out of his mouth, except hands caught his and it was _really_ , truly choking him and blue flames were flickering out in warning on his palms, but—

 _Haki_. Fucking haki. Smooth and feeling like they ought to be weighted, hands coated in the stuff just _touching_ Marco’s fire like it’s tangible (because it was, vulnerably so, to all the motherfuckers in Shanks’ crew who apparently had all that armament haki so casually available to just bring out and play—to play _Marco_ with). Marco’s arms went _more_ fire, which matte metal just kept holding down. Phoenix flame didn’t burn—many people have told him throughout the years that it was just warm and ironically liquid to the touch. Marco could still _feel_ through them though, as they made up the body of the phoenix, so when someone’s _cock_ glided over and _through_ his fire, like it was fucking right into some deeply essential core of Marco’s corporeal body Marco _shuddered_ —

Promptly disappeared all his flames because no, that was too much, too much for strangers to touch. Maybe if it was Shanks—but Shanks was still imminently absent from the scene, his unmistakable presence hazy within the room but not _there._ Marco felt bitterly his own change of tune; it was no longer a smug thought, Shanks by the wayside. He could see it clearly now for the _punishment_ it was—that taunt, _not a single one of my crew has come yet? Tsk tsk Marco,_ _you’re sure taking it easy tonight, aren’t you?_

How _easy_ was it to swallow around tears and phlegm and that fucking persistent _dick_ in his throat? Riding that sudden wave of indignant anger, Marco sealed his lips around the circumference of the shaft and truly began to _suck_ , determined to prove that little mental voice of Shanks wrong. _One_ , he thought. _This would just be the first one_.

When the cock came, thick and sticky semen shot right down Marco’s throat, Marco breathed through his nose and swallowed in victory. The person fucking his ass too was picking up the pace, hips snapping into a fast and faster frenzy until they stuttered into orgasm. _Two._ The come shot hot into Marco, like a brand once again, coating his insides.

People readily filled the now-empty slots in Marco, and Marco kept counting.

At orgasm five, Marco’s back felt the burn of the chaise leather upholstery, and he was half-hard again. Someone must’ve seen his spine lifting from the discomfort, because hands were immediately moving to pick him up and turn him around. The third cock in Maco’s ass didn’t move; Marco was rotated around it, like roast on a spit, and set on his hands and knees. To distract all who were present from the burning red of his neck, Marco braced himself and fucked back on that dick.

Marco came again, at orgasm seven, the fourth load to empty into his now-dripping asshole. Marco came mainly because two mouths had descended on either side of his cock to lick and lap along the length. When their tongues curved _hard_ into the underside of Marco’s balls, and someone’s fingertips rubbed insistent little circles around the head of Marco’s cock, Marco jerked (teeth accidentally grazing the person in his mouth, who jumped at the sensation and pinched a large hand into the hollows of Marco’s cheeks in wary warning) and came again. Small and weak, and it made him _ache_ something awful inside.

That’s when someone lithe and small slid under him, shimming up until they were chest-to-chest. The person’s legs wrapped happily around Marco’s waist, and there were now fingers lifting his spent and limp cock. Before Marco could even protest the soreness though, he was being _inserted_ , quite insistently, into a hot and dripping cunt.

Marco tossed his head back with a strangled yell—collapsed onto his elbows, barely managing not to crush the person underneath him—and another cock, the biggest one he’s had yet tonight, fucked into his ass with a long, slick glide. It was just so fucking _much_ , Marco utterly _flattened_ by the heat he was sunken into and was sunk into him, hips twitching helplessly, _erratically_ forward and back, trying to get more-no away-no _more_ -no—

The cock in him started fucking, as inevitable as everything else tonight, the pull and drag of hands, the pinch and slap of fingers, the load of come left in Marco’s ass that was so far beyond just _dripping_ out, was being _pushed_ out of him with every twisting grind that also pushed Marco’s spent cock further into the vagina, miming a fuck Marco was way too over-sensitized for except there was nothing he could _do._ He couldn’t shove anyone away or free himself, couldn’t yank his hands out of the grips that held him but was actually maybe more supporting him at this point, holding him together as he shook and shook, the cock pumping in and out of him alternating between lazy glides and punishing thrusts, and how many of them had orgasmed again—?

Marco’d lost count, because he blinked once, and he woke to the sensation of someone pushing fresh past his sore, _sore_ rim and when had he been empty? Was that someone new or someone finishing the job? The person underneath him was _still_ there, now happily rolling that cunt up on Marco’s painfully hard cock, clitoris grinding right up against Marco in giddy friction. Marco could hardly take it, felt each clamp of vaginal walls around his cock like water driven to boil by the dunk of fire-hot iron. With desperate hitching breaths he fucked down too, trying to get the person off as quickly as possible so he might feel some _reprieve_ around his cock—and the one fucking into him helped Marco along—

The cunt came in great spasms that _gripped_ at Marco. The cock in Marco fucked them both through it, and Marco really must’ve screamed right against the ear of the person beneath him, as two more fingers—fucking _fingers_ , the endless lot of them—hooked past his rim to join the cock in Marco’s ass and there was a brand new kind of wet around Marco’s dick and—

Marco’s arms were pulled behind his back and used to leverage him up. He was lifted—off the person whose cunt gave him one last squeeze goodbye, and right back and all the way down onto that dick. And those fingers, that now _moved_ , between the dick and Marco’s walls until Marco could feel knuckles nudging his balls. And now the fingers were _hooking_ , _pressing_ the spongey front of the inside of Marco’s ass and kind of stretching his rim out some more and—

—another person against his front, bigger and broader than Marco and that was _this_ person’s fingers and—

—a blunt pressure at Marco’s entrance, the fingers slipping out until only the tips held Marco’s rim just slight out as oh _fuck_ , that was another cock, that was _another cock_ pushing up next to the one already _in_ Marco and pushing and _pushing_ and—

So _slick_ Marco was that once the head of the second cock got past Marco’s _burning_ rim, the rest went in with persistent ease and Marco _wailed_ , a visceral noise tearing itself from his throat and the sheer _width_ pulling him apart, the pressure filling up all that space deep inside him. Someone’s teeth were on his bottom lip but he didn’t care, just kept feeling his lungs and mouth heave with _sobs_ at the two cocks in him and the come coating and still _dripping_ off his dick and all of a sudden Marco couldn’t _take_ it anymore. Something shuddered until it _snapped_ in him and he was coming— _again_ — _untouched_ —

They held him. The two members of Shanks’ crew, unseen and unheard but _definitely_ , definitely not unfelt by Marco just held him up in the air like that, impaled on both of them. They held him until he stopped shaking—or, well, until Marco returned to his prior amount of overstimulated shaking, no longer overtaken by nearly violent twitching as he gasped in breaths wet with tears. They held him until Marco had fully collapsed into the arms of whoever was in front of him, the person’s dick almost kind in the way it curled forward against Marco’s front wall, holding a steady pressure down on Marco’s prostate.

But. Words. Only little words, little gatherings of words could flicker like ignited match heads in Marco’s mind. _Inevitabi_ _lity_ _._ _How many…?_ _All of them once._ The body behind him—

Gears and teeth in places. Everything ground back to life again.

The person behind him did all the work, while Marco just curled up and the person in front just held him. For the first few strokes it was the stinging pull against his rim, and Marco’s breath hitched wetly into the neck he’d buried his face into. After that though, it settled into the steady formula of pressure, _more_ pressure, pressure, _more._

Murmurs right by his ear—they might’ve actually been audible, but Marco was in no state to parse the words. All he knew was right after, there were hands coaxing their way under his thighs. Some arms from the side gripped Marco’s shoulders, and Marco was stretched back with a whine. The purpose of this quickly became clear though, as the arms that had held him adjusted their positions, surely sore from bearing Marco’s weight this entire time. They were trading off, the peoples in front and behind him. The one who had held Marco now did the pistoning, cockhead curving up and _pushing_ into Marco’s prostate and Marco _trembled_. He could barely feel the trickle of liquid out of his own very spent, very worked-over cock, as the work on his prostate continued.

He felt the person in front of him come only after the fact, when the semen leaked with the cock pulling out, sticky ropes of it smearing onto Marco’s skin. Another cock—a synthetic one, this time, thinner than the last but more rigid and guided in its fucking—slid in and Marco completely lost his breath at the thought that this was how it’s going to be now. Two cocks in him at all times, all with the singular goal of filling him with come.

 _Don’t stop until every one of them has come,_ Shanks had said. _Obviously._ Well this certainly seemed a more expedient method of achieving that goal. Marco wondered—no, he didn’t have to. He _knew_ this was on Shanks’ order, before or after Marco was walked through those double doors. Mount Marco up between strong, sailing arms and stuff him full. Make it so that he’d have nothing to remember, nothing to think, nothing to _know_ but the cocks fucking him. Take Marco all the way _dow_ n.

With that thought, something in Marco _gave_. His spine, perhaps, and he melted back against the chest behind him. His ribcage, maybe, and giving up breathing between the hot press of bodies all around him was the most liberating sensation. His _fight_. First Division Commander et cetera, captured by enemies. Here was his surrender, the part where nothing that’s been done to him could ever be denied and neither could the ways he’s been _reacting_. This crew promised to take him apart, and they _did_. Marco’s been _taken_ , most thoroughly, was still _being_ taken, all the far-flung parts of him. He was the bonfire at the center of the evening’s entertainments and they were the pieces of lumber, prodding and stoking into the fluttering heat of him. He was entirely borne _by_ them.

The person behind him pressed a tender kiss, with parted lips, to the side of Marco’s neck, right underneath his ear. Marco might have, might have not whispered words like _oh_ and _thank you_ , but he definitely shivered into tears.

And with Marco _gone_ between them, the two people holding Marco began to take their pleasure again.

How different it was, to have—not given up, but given over. Every bit of raw aching—the tendons in his thighs gone strengthless in their persistent stretch, the muscles lining his vertebrae overworked and shaking, and every nerve ending inside and outside his ass, still being touched and rubbed up against and _st_ _inging_ —could be withstood, every new sensation— _slick, hard, thin, fat,_ the person that liked to stroke up and up and _up_ in him and the person who took the longest time just rolling _through_ him—just absorbed. The sensations sank so easily now into him, and he felt open, _agape_ to it all. The change of arms around him, the change of cocks in him. The descend of mouths on his chest and his dick. Even his own tears, helplessly leaking down his cheeks as a tongue laved at his _very_ sore shaft, felt loose. Free.

He wasn’t even remotely concerned with counting anymore; Shanks’ crew just _was_ , and Marco just _could_. He could take this. He could take the tongue tip with all its salivating focus on digging into his slit. He could take the two thick cocks sat in him at once. He could take the fingers that coated themselves in the mess of cum around his hole to smear into Marco’s mouth. He could take—

When the person behind him pulled out, Marco scented a _spark_ in the air. It was a catch of heat that danced so familiarly against the skin of Marco’s neck and Marco _whimpered_ , baring his throat—

Shanks’ arm caught around Marco’s middle, strong and heedless of the _mess_ smeared all over the skin, and his cock slid into Marco from behind. He pressed so close, so intimately up against Marco and whoever was in front of them and _oh_ , this was Shanks as _captain_ , sharing his lover with one of his crew mates and _fuck_ , if Shanks was here then that meant he’d already shared Marco with _nineteen_ of his crew mates and—

There were no more extra hands on him; all retracted like burrowing critters in the sand when a larger predator stepped through. There was just Shanks and the tall one in front, who was backing up now, moving them all somewhere until Marco felt a drop in gravity. They’d sat back onto the chaise lounge, Marco still pinned hot and pliant between them as one of Shanks’ knees braced beside his hip. Gasping on the sudden change in how he was being _filled_ , Marco’s mouth was caught by Shanks’ hand, guided up to the lips in front and—he was kissing one of Shanks’ crew mates right in front of—

Shanks now took one of Marco’s hands and brought it to the face he was kissing. He touched sun-toughened skin and long tendrils of sweat-drenched hair and an X-shaped scar against a temple and _fuck_ , this was Benn Beckman—Benn, who handled his flintlock like a champ and Benn who handled _Shanks_ like a champ. Benn Beckman who agreed to be one of the group to fuck Marco and be one of the _last_ , after Marco’s been made a _mess_. Marco could taste the cigarette on those lips now, the gunsmoke. He could feel the iron-hard biceps and pectoral definition all pressed up against and around him. He could feel Shanks’ teeth sinking, almost _proudly_ , into the back of his neck.

 _See?_ Shanks seemed to be saying, with his wandering hand and rolling cock. _See how good my crew is for you?_

Benn laid back, tugging Marco along with until Marco was sprawled out above him and Shanks could brace himself with a hand on the small of Marco’s back. Then Shanks started _fucking_ Marco, his ever-loyal first mate helping along with supportive little thrusts up, also Benn’s hands _spreading_ Marco with insistent grips and Marco could _take_ this, he could. He just—He was also just a little bit—

On one particular upwards roll of his hips, Benn also nudged Marco in such a way that Marco’s cock, pinned between their bodies, could glide up, against the bumps and ridges of Ben’s abs and Marco _yelled_. Shanks was moving again, his whole upper body more fully blanketing Marco (with Benn picking up the slack on the fucking, their one-two punch their perfect teamwork _relentless_ inside Marco’s burning, shaking body), his teeth tugging at Marco’s earlobe. The motion, then the dip of a tongue into the whorl of his ear, made the earplug shift in such a _ticklish_ burst of sensation that Marco, surely, made another rather embarrassing noise. He could feel Shanks’ chest laughing against his back.

Then, Shanks’ mouth pressed all the way up against his ear, growling in such a way that Marco could feel every sound wave like static shock that danced all through his body and straight to his _cock_ —

“ _I_ _sn’t it your turn to work for it, then?"_

Benn stopped moving. Breaths once again ragging his throat, Marco picked himself up on trembling hands and knees (but _Shanks_ , the bastard, just kept all his weight on Marco, not moving to help or make this easier at all) and began fucking himself _back_ on the two cocks in his ass. Not just any two—Marco was sandwiched between two of the most dangerous men in the _world_. These were arms and legs and _pinky fingers_ that have killed, were two gunpowder and matte steel men asking something of Marco with silken tones and entitled palms. Benn lied back and Shanks sprawled forward, so _tightly_ pinning Marco as Marco was put to work, sweat pouring down his feverish skin.

At some point, Marco’s legs gave out, as they were bound to. His arms were quick to follow, but he still tried to keep up his best, abs and cock _aching_ as they struggled to fuck Benn into orgasm. He tried to squeeze around the cocks in his ass and give a little more pressure, but god, he was so exhausted and so _loose_ that one experimental little hitch of hips from Shanks just opened him right up again. And the tears were leaking again, at Marco so battered and surely bruised from persistent _use_ alone, and with what little consciousness he still had Marco deciphered the buzzing hum of Shanks’ chest as a coo of pity. Shanks _pitied_ him his shameful, useless state, exhausted on all of Shanks’ crew members and incapable at this point of bringing Benn to orgasm alone and that sat so _hot_ , so _red_ on Marco’s neck that Marco tried to twist his head away. Benn’s hands brought him back, tucked him firmly (and almost _fondly_ ) into Benn’s neck. More muffled sound.

“ _You can help a guy out, y’know.”_

“ _I guess, ye_ _ah._ _A_ _nd he’s been so good for us, haven’t you Marco?_ ”

The tears turned into ones of relief, when Shanks started moving again. Rapid, purposeful thrusts and a smattering of words above that Marco could barely make out—

“— _quite something, isn’t he_ —”

“— _join in more often_ —”

“— _think you don’t get jealous but you do, y’know_ —”

Benn Beckman turned his head and pressed a cherishing, lingering kiss to Marco’s temple. Shanks’ hand, on Marco’s hips, squeezed. _Hard_.

“ _When are_ _you_ _gonna come_ _already,_ _man_ _?_ ”

“— _well if you’d just let me_ —”

In yet another display of their perfect synchronicity, Benn sat up and shifted back, while Shanks joined him sitting. This way, they got to pull Marco back against Shanks, Shanks’ elbow hooking over Marco’s collarbone and his hand cupping the other side of Marco’s face. If Marco turned his face just so, he could lap at Shanks’ palm—so he did, driven by some thunderous feeling of _gratitude_. Marco felt absurdly pleased that this was Shanks and his first mate, his best man putting Marco between the cage of their arms, giving Marco their _words_ that were as good as touch itself in terms of intimacy, after Marco’s gone so long lost to soundlessness.

Shanks—Shanks seemed to understand. He always did. His palm smoothed over the tear tracks on Marco’s cheek, fingers dipping teasingly below the blindfold but not lifting enough for Marco to even see a glimpse of light. Then he fed that saltwater right back to Marco, palm slathering over Marco’s tongue, the inside of Marco’s lips.

It was Benn’s turn to rise to his knees, bracing himself on the chaise to fuck into Marco.

At this point, there was no new angle, no new way to drag against all of Marco’s sensitive insides, and Benn knew that. So he made it simple; he chased his own orgasm with clear and perfect aim, chin tucked over one of Marco’s shoulders. Shanks’ head found its way over the other, and Marco could feel both their sweat dripping onto his chest as the force of Benn’s thrusts rocked them all in place.

Benn Beckman was an unambiguous man. As his orgasm approached, his speed increased and his strokes shortened. Shanks held Marco tighter, bracing them both as Benn fucked _harder_ , one hand squeezing Marco’s thigh so tight that blue flames bloomed but he just fortified his grip with haki and _kept going_. Marco felt so _caught_ , Shanks a hook and Benn a claw dragging into his flesh and however powerful and mythical the phoenix he _couldn’t get loose_. They wanted him, so this was how it must be; they wanted, so he was kept. Marco was entirely _subject_ to their agencies, and when Benn came it was with a groan so seismic that Marco could feel it in his lungs. Then, as Benn’s hips stuttered, doing a thorough job of milking his own cock in Marco’s heat, his free hand touched one of Marco’s earplugs.

Pinched it. Took it out.

The rush of air was wild enough for Marco to flinch from, but worse was Benn’s panting, right up against his cheek—

“Good job. Hey, thanks for that.”

Shanks plucked out the other earplug, and Marco could hear now, exactly _how_ desperate his keens were. It was so _much_ , the inflood of sounds that shocked a whole new portion of Marco’s brain into frenzy—Benn and Shanks’ grunting breaths, his own noises, the _ah, ah, ah_ that came out so torn and raw, the _wetness_ when Benn finally pulled out.

His own shaking whisper, sounding like the voice of some other man, some other consciousness far, _far_ from whatever was left here of Marco.

“Shanks, _please, Shanks, fuck me_ —”

What an absurd thing to ask for, because Shanks was already doing that (has _been_ doing that, for the duration of twenty men) and that wasn’t even literally what Marco wanted. Shanks, yet again, understood, and chuckled little shushing noises right in Marco’s ear. To Marco’s horrible displeasure, Shanks started pulling out too, and with wild arms Marco tried to grab him back. Keep him from going as Benn has.

(Further away, the sound of a door closing quietly. There was nobody else in the ballroom now, just Marco and Shanks on the chaise in the middle, the proof that there was ever anybody else there inside and all over Marco.)

“I got you,” Shanks promised, squeezing Marco’s shaking hand firmly. “Really, trust me.”

Marco reluctantly let him go, and could cry at the awful, empty coldness inside him. Shank’s hand found his shoulder and turned him slightly, before nudging him to lay down flat.

Then Shanks laid down right on top of Marco, slid his cock back home with a satisfied sigh.

“You’re so loose,” Shanks murmured against Marco’s chin with all this stifled glee. “I can feel you trying to tighten up against me, but we’ve fucked you wide open.”

Marco’s throat made a noise, and his hands gripped desperate divots into the skin of Shanks’ back.

“You should’ve seen yourself tonight.” How Shanks could sound all at once cocky and in awe, Marco didn’t know. He could only keep his mind on the slick, leisurely glide of Shanks in him, the way all his nerves sang with the familiar touch, the familiar kinetics, and wanted to come _again_. For Shanks. Just for Shanks. “A perfect fit for all of us. I don’t know how you do it, blue.”

The teasing term of endearment—it was reminding Marco of something—

“Shanks—”

Marco’s arms were almost shaking too hard from overexertion to move, but he was able to guide Shanks’ hand down between them—not to his cock, but just to the dip of his hip where skin bridged to leg. Shanks made a sound of curiosity, and Marco took a deep breath, concentrated…

Flickering fire danced up Marco’s thigh, gliding up to where Shanks’ hand lied like ocean tides jumped for the moon and Shanks said something—Marco didn’t catch the words, but caught the tone, the hushed wonder of it as Shanks obliged the silent request. Haki. Phoenix flames. _Deep_ , Shanks’ fingers dipping into the most tangible core of him. Marco would’ve asked Shanks how it felt to capture fire, had he not been sure it felt just as good as the way he _burned_.

“Marco,” Shanks whispered, lips to Marco’s lips, cock and fingers sunk into separate, but equally vital heats of Marco. “Come with me.”

Marco—Marco _cried_. _Overwhelmed_ was an underwhelming word for his feeling. God, he wanted to give this to Shanks, he wanted to give _so badly_ but his cock’s been spent long before Shanks’ crew emptied it out some more and he swore if he was touched again he would _kill_ Shanks, or maybe just die himself. But the way Shanks started rolling his hips faster like an invitation, the way Shanks alternated laughs and kisses against Marco’s bottom lip—Marco _wanted—_

His right hand, trembling, ignited into flames. Shanks gasped, a viciously happy sound, against Marco’s teeth, as Marco slowly brought his fire to his own dick. He had no idea what this would do—he hardly anticipated _healing._ Just because it hurt didn’t mean it was something Marco could undo, and beside, the phoenix inside him already knew this wasn’t to be fixed. But it could be _different_. Instead of corporeal flesh that stripped him so raw, Marco could fuck up into—

—god, his own _flames_ , what sort of depravity has he sunk into—

The moment his hand found its way around his cock, Shanks’ fingers joined him. Still coated with haki, Shanks touched and _held_ the fire, then closed it _tight_ around Marco in a sealing grip.

It _was_ like water, if water was also air was also feathers was also Shanks’ grip from the outside. It was also _pressure_. Marco gave his hand a tentative, experimental twist and had to choke back a yell. Like the pour of a hot shower down his cock, except the pour was completely contained and twisted _around_ him. Like some thicker atmosphere, almost plasma, swallowing over Marco.

“Good, good—” Shanks was picking up his thrusts again, keeping his haki and Marco’s flames in place as his breathing got harsher, more sawing in its pursuit of orgasm. “—that’s it. You’re doing great Marco. Just one more.”

First it was _until every one of them_ , now it’s _just one more_. There were always more demands from Shanks and dammit if Marco wasn’t going to satisfy every single one with aplomb. They were, he reminded himself, what he'd wanted. Gritting his teeth over a growling scream, Marco _stroked_. He _took_ the cramping pain in his abdomen, _took_ the protesting ache in his cock, _took_ the mean slaps of Shanks against him and—

Shanks pulled out, fisted both their cocks together in that fire-and-metal grip and _squeezed_ and Marco—god—fuck— _fuck_ —

* * *

Waking up, Marco decided, wasn’t fair after all that.

Even bathed and thoroughly cleaned, Marco’s skin still sang with the infinite touches from—oh god, the night before? Morning warmth bloomed forth from the hotel room window and Marco groaned.

“When are you leaving the island, yoi?” His voice came out _dilapidated_ , tattered from a throat abused. “Pay for the room ‘til after you’re gone. I can’t let your crew see me after that.”

Shanks, happily lounging in the bed naked beside Marco, set a small, familiar notebook aside and gave Marco’s hair a sympathetic ruffle.

“Sure,” was his ready agreement. “How are you feeling?”

“Like twenty men have been plowing me all night,” Marco deadpanned. He tried to get up, but his arms literally wouldn’t move. “Congratulations, if you were trying to assassinate me, you’ve got your chance.”

“Yeah,” Shanks snickered, “you were _completely_ worn out. You’re welcome, I think.”

And maybe the bed linens were amazingly soft, or maybe this city just inexplicably agreed with Marco—but something as warm as the sun stroked aflame inside Marco’s chest, and he buried his face in the pillow, right beside Shanks’ naked waist.

“Thank you,” he muffled his mutter in the pillow, but of course Shanks heard it anyways. The scratch of fingers along his scalp was loving.

“See? I told you I could do it.” In the notebook that laid now between them from Shanks’ hand, Marco knew there was a checklist in black ink. The words were penned in Shank’s messy hand, from that one conversation they had about fantasies and dreams and _needs_. “Everything as requested. Exactly as you wanted.”


	2. Shanks/Marco/Benn, what happened in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gangbang wasn't the only fantasy of Marco's they filled that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h-hello, surprise! nobody asked but here's 5k more of "oops i got horny at work and wrote this shit in broad daylight"
> 
> Shanks/Marco/Benn, 'cause I can't seem to stop writing them these days.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: somnophilia (sex while one party is asleep) & drugged sex is the _entire_ premise of this section, so please be aware. This is all in a Risk Aware Consensual Kink context and that's made repeatedly clear in the text. See end for more warnings & details.

It’s times like this, when Shanks’ first mate had Shanks’ lover near-unconscious and spread open between two hands, that made Shanks…

Well, “regret” wouldn’t be the right word, because he’d never regret losing that arm, and regretting not feeling regret was so passe, and Shanks never _truly_ felt regret anyways. To regret required being overly oriented toward the past, the what-could-have-been’s, and Shanks, since youth, has always been thoroughly, even pathologically aimed toward futurity.

So what name did that leave this feeling here? “Longing” or “yearning” were, Shanks was a bit loathed to admit, the most accurate of the lot. He was at heart an understated man (melodrama found _him_ , alright?), and those sorts of names rung with altogether too much passion. Shanks _had_ passion, just not here. Not for this. This here was more of a simmer, the thrum of the liquid surface if it could be ever-suspended right before the point of breaking boil.

“Hospitality, Captain,” Benn was saying. His voice was pitched right at that thrumming, because being first mate meant that whatever his captain was feeling he felt it too; his baritone was more husky than deep, more air than substance, suspended right before the point of full tonal formation. “That’s what we promised.”

“And that’s what we’re giving him,” Shanks answered lightly. The room he and Marco were given had the largest bath. It hadn’t been Shanks’ request, but he also hadn’t protested when Benn quietly made the arrangements. “What, you think he’d rather be neatly cleaned, tucked in, and left alone?”

“You would know.”

“I would.”

Benn broke into a grin, his eyes fiercely framed by the lines on his face that Shanks has caressed so many times, plus and minus one limb.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t be jealous.”

Shanks grinned back, with those scars Benn has touched so many times (Marco, funny enough, seemed to shy away from them—perhaps out of conflict, as his lover was permanently marked by a man he called brother).

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna join.”

Chuckling, Benn pulled Marco closer, the end of his ponytail carried by the water to wrap almost tauntingly around Marco’s chest. Shanks could see, below water surface, Benn’s hands sliding lower on the underside of Marco’s thighs. Divot into the flesh of Marco’s ass.

Marco groaned softly, and Shanks watched Benn nuzzle at the top of his head, his lips parted and trailing along Benn’s collarbone.

“Then you’re sure you want me to do this.” It wasn’t a question, because Shanks didn’t do regret and Shanks didn’t make flimsy requests either. Not for matters of this sort. Not from Benn. “How about you? You’re sure about this?”

That was murmured with his lips on Marco’s forehead until Marco’s eyelids cracked just that hazy bit open. That was when Benn swiped a finger around the (loose, _loose_ ) rim of Marco’s hole, and Marco shivered back down to proneness again. Maybe it’s more accurate to say, rather than near-unconscious, he was near-conscious—thrumming underneath the breaking open of it, aching to _not_ split the surface tension.

And that’s what the notebook has always been meant for, wasn’t it?

“He wants it,” Shanks confirmed, feeling his own eyes going half-lidded when Benn’s fingers dipped in and rubbed idly at the walls. He wanted to feel those fingers himself, also the little almost-squirms of Marco with his legs spread on either side of Benn’s hips. Ripples in the water marked every tell-tale jerk and wriggle, too strengthless to be either toward or away from Benn’s touch.

“Read his mind, did you,” Benn teased, but also Benn checked, because he was thorough about things like this. He was thorough about many kinds of things, like cleaning the come from every square centimeter of Marco’s inside coated with the stuff. Shanks wanted to _lick—_ Marco’s hole or Benn’s fingers, it hardly mattered. Why was he the one left out of the tub again?

“He’s described the fantasy to me in _thorough_ detail.” Shanks didn’t mean for his voice to sound so rough, but there wasn’t a sight more rough-making than Marco, his Marco, fucked genuinely _unconscious_ and glowing for it, in the confident and generous arms of one of the strongest men Shanks knew. Oh yeah, that’s why Shanks opted out of stepping in—one arm and a deadweight surrounded by slippery ceramic did not for a good time make.

Benn stood up now, with both arms and Marco thoroughly cleaned in their embrace. Shanks was shameless in his staring and grinning at the proof of Benn’s willingness to participate in Marco’s little fantasy (though, as the events just prior in the night could attest, _little_ was the furthest adjective from adequate in describing Marco’s fantasies).

“Oh and just in case? I asked him on the way up. He said _I better be fucking unconscious for that, I don’t think I can look your first mate in the eyes ever again._ ”

What Shanks _could_ do with his one arm was take a towel to run over the wettest areas of both Marco and Benn, ending on Benn’s ponytail. As he rubbed the hair dry, Shanks kept grinning eye contact with Benn as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Marco’s mouth.

The other thing that Shanks couldn’t bring himself to fully regret, yet felt that certain _longing,_ that _yearning_ about: his own no-kissing rule. It was no secret Shanks liked attractive people, and then kept attractive people around by extending them offers to join his crew. It _was_ sort of a secret that Shanks had enough emotional wherewithal to institute from the get-go a rule—purely symbolic, but so-far-effective in its symbolism—about not kissing crew. Just for himself, so that no favorites were played and no lines were crossed.

...Well, so that no favorites were played in crew. Until the day Marco caved to his shamelessly flaunted request to join the Red Hair Pirates, Shanks could play favorites with _him_ all he wanted.

(He liked to think that’s a reason why Marco hasn’t caved yet.)

“So, Benn.” But what the fuck were rules and fairness anyways, for pirates like them? The way Shanks leaned his face into the hollow of Benn’s neck and breathed in deep was as good as a kiss. “You promised hospitality.”

A man of precise manners, Benn rested his cheek briefly on the top of Shanks’ head, Marco warmly pressed between them.

“Captain, _you_ promised hospitality.” The damp ends of Benn’s hair touched Shanks’ lips. “I’m just here to share in the labor, as always.”

* * *

And it _was_ labor. Shanks had already given Marco countless hours of grievous sighing plus head shaking over being so high maintenance, and _you really put my crew to work, don’t you?_

And Marco had already replied countless times, still unable to hide the polite little flush on his neck, that this had been Shanks’ idea in the first place.

 _What about when you’re asleep?_ was how Shanks had broached the subject, one night in bed on the Red Force. They’d just experimented with a specialty condom given to Shanks by a rather lascivious local, but the ribbing had been fun enough that Marco couldn’t complain. That meant a Marco who was all lubed up and fucked open, but without the dripping mess of come that usually drove Marco to immediately clean himself up. That meant a Marco lying languid on the bed, and a Shanks who could run his fingers lazily in and out of his lover, dreaming of the possibilities.

 _You’d like that?_ Marco had asked with genuine curiosity. He was almost being spooned by Shanks, shifting with a decided air of a martyr who was indulging Shanks’ perpetual need to put _something_ in Marco.

 _You wouldn’t?_ Three fingers in, Shanks shimmied up and settled flush against Marco with a sigh. He let his fingers curl and uncurl in a flowing tempo, knuckling right over Marco’s prostate. Marco shivered accordingly, and Shanks mouthed wetly at the lobe of his ear. _Imagine being bone tired, exhausted after a hard day’s work. You lay down in our warm bed and go to sleep but in the middle of the night, you wake up to the feeling of my cock already fucking you._

Marco had clenched hard around his fingers, pupils gone wide. His breath was dropping to heavy again, despite coming down from an orgasm only twenty minutes ago.

 _You start to turn over_ , Shanks murmured into Marco’s neck, half snickering but entirely serious. _But I just slap your ass, say ‘thanks,’ then go right to sleep._

 _You want to…_ Marco had trailed off then, because Shanks had started rolling his hand back and forth with deliberate intent, and Marco was busy spreading his legs wider. _Mmh._

It was Marco who slipped the drug into Shanks’ hand, the next time they met up.

 _This’ll work?_ was what Shanks said in mild intrigue, to hide the pulse of excitement that flooded his system.

 _I trust you_ , was all Marco said in response, unusually, but not unduly, serious.

Trust. Marco had chosen to give him the bottle at the very end of their tryst—intentionally, probably, as a tease—so Shanks couldn’t just put it to good use right then and there. That was probably a wise decision on Marco’s part. His trust deserved more planning, more deliberate execution.

And when Shanks needed something planned, he went to Benn.

(When Shanks needed _trust_ , he went to Benn.)

 _So is the fantasy_ , Benn had asked, once Shanks had given him the rundown, _that he can’t fight back?_

 _The question is_ , Shanks had immediately picked up, knowing exactly where Benn was going with this, _how much does he want to not-fight against?_

Benn was the one who tapped a long finger against the “gangbang” bullet point in their little notebook and began to string together the events for the evening. The notebook was filled with Marco and Shanks’ fantasies, none of Benn’s. That was fine, Shanks figured, because he wasn’t playing favorites with his crew.

(Besides, it’s not like Benn’s name wasn’t already in there, multiple times, in both sets of handwriting.)

The drug had seawater in it. Shanks has never liked anything more than he’s liked Marco’s masochistic streak (if a streak was the width of the entire Grand Line).

So now, they could lay the under-conscious Marco on the hotel bed, facedown for easy access. Phase one of the plan was already complete: fuck Marco into complete exhaustion with a crew of twenty. Leave Marco loose and all his nerve endings buzzing between numb and oversensitized.

Shanks fingered the lubricant into Marco, and gestured generously for Benn to go ahead of him.

“No need for hospitality towards _me_ , Captain,” Benn had all but purred, half-lidded eyes fixed on Shanks even as he unzipped his trousers. He entered Marco with a smooth, gentle thrust, because the bottle with the drug was still sitting full on the bedside table.

Marco’s low breathing stuttered, and Benn held perfectly still until it evened out again.

Benn enveloped Marco because he could, because he had two elbows he could brace himself on while he rolled his hips steadily down. It simultaneously made Shanks laugh and his blood boil—for all the power in the world that Shanks could have, the ability to hold this simple position wasn’t one of them. So here was Benn, his ever loyal left hand, doing it in his stead.

Fucking Marco, then ejaculating inside Marco, with him. Marco didn’t stir until the very last thrust, which came harder than the rest (so to speak). A little grunt vibrated in his chest when Benn pulled out.

Shanks had to take a different position: spreading Marco’s legs more firmly apart, he lifted Marco’s hip to meet his at kneeling height. A furrow appeared on Marco’s brow, and his jaw clenched in premonition of waking. But Benn only needed the slightest glance from Shanks to get the drug ready, tipping the bottle into a waiting towel.

Marco’s lashes fluttered, and Shanks lifted a finger, ordering Benn to _grab_. What Marco must’ve felt in that moment of perfect awakeness—the slackness and ache of his body from being fucked twenty times earlier, the sudden tight grip of Benn’s wide palm on the back of his head, the pungently sweet scent of the drug filling and fogging his consciousness with terrifying immediacy.

Shanks’ cock in his ass, and a particularly harsh snap of the hips that compounded Marco’s adrenaline, desperately fighting the pull of the drug.

But Marco had known both what he wanted and how to get it—the drug ‘s efficacy peaked once the liquid and its vapor entered Marco’s system. His hands, dug into the bed and Benn’s unyielding arm, slackened, and his body began to fall back onto the bed.

Shanks started thrusting before Marco’s pupils could get completely lost behind lashes. Benn had removed the towel, and Marco’s open mouth allowed the escape of soft, broken cries. His well-worn rim, his swollen inner tissue—how they must be stinging from the rough treatment. The drug could give him a fuller respite but that wasn’t the fantasy. Shanks was to keep him submerged under that very surface of thrumming, afloat in that near-conscious state.

Pushing in to the hilt, Shanks shoved two fingers in beside his dick. He curled them and pulled, off to the side, spreading Marco just that bit more open.

Benn swung over to the other side of the bed and, well, lent Shanks a hand.

A sizable cock and four fingers. It wasn’t more than what Marco had already taken earlier in the night but it was absolutely enough to wake any un-drugged man. A drugged man, however, could only shove his trembling fists and forehead into the pillow under his head, could only moan and grunt and groan with the frustration of not being able to get up, not being able to do anything useful to resist.

They both slipped their fingers out right before Shanks orgasmed. Shanks did so he could pull Marco’s hip back in a truly bruising hold, making his thrusts hard enough to leave Marco’s ass red. Benn did so he could go to the coffee table a bit further away from the bed.

He tossed the exact toy Shanks wanted across the room, once Shanks has finished coming.

It wasn’t the longest length of anal beads, but the progression in size from tip to base was what Marco had always liked about it. The smallest was perhaps the size of a piece of hard candy, the biggest maybe a clementine. With lubrication and both Benn and Shanks’ come slicking the way, all the beads went in easy, and Marco made another muffled mewling noise into the pillow.

With Marco all plugged up tight, Shanks turned on the lowest level of vibrations. Then, gesturing with his head to Benn, he shuffled up the bed, sighed loudly in contentment, and lied down beside Marco, pinning one of Marco’s arms under the weight of his body. Benn joined him on Marco’s other side, and when Marco’s legs started squirming, they both kicked a foot over him in synchronized motion, to render Marco, weak from the drug, largely immobile.

“I really do appreciate,” Shanks said to Benn, as Marco’s arm and leg helplessly squirmed beneath him and the soft hum of vibrations filled the room, “all your hard work. I mean it.”

“I know,” Benn replied easily enough, lighting a smoke. “I wouldn’t follow you if you didn’t.”

“But what are you thinking though,” Shanks persisted, “when I get you into a long night like this? It’s very hard work. So to speak.”

Rolling his eyes at the entendre Shanks was obviously not sorry about, Benn reached down and scratched dull fingernails across Marco’s scalp. Marco, with his parted lips and unfocused eyes, groaned again at the new sensation.

“Do you want me to say I’m honored?” asked Benn. “To have the opportunity to fuck a man you hold in such high esteem?”

“I want you to say you’re having a good time.”

“Trust me,” Benn laughed around a cloud of smoke, shifting Marco’s leg more apart with his own, then bending a knee just enough to kick the anal beads further in with his heel. The drug was so potent that even Marco’s full-body jerk of _pleasurepain_ was tattered and aborted. “I’m having a terrific time.”

A trail of saliva was making its way down Marco’s cheek from the corner of his slack mouth. Shanks greatly enjoyed the sight of it.

“And you, Captain?” Benn suddenly asked. He’d pinched his cigarette between fore and middle finger, hovering it over the expanse of Marco’s back as if deciding where to tap off the ashes. “Is this working out the way you wanted?”

“Oh you know how I feel about your plans, Benn,” Shanks answered with a grin. Instead of just the ashes, Shanks pulled Benn’s entire hand down, pressing the cherry red into the back of Marco’s shoulder. That got more of a reaction, as expected. Left a circular burn that Shanks could feel Marco’s fingers clenching for, torso squirming from. “Flawless. You get me everything I want.”

“Speaking of which.” The segue cued Benn reaching into his pocket and pulling out a flask. It wasn’t alcohol inside, but something else to keep the already-late evening going for him and Shanks. He took a large, faithful swig at the arch of Shanks’ brow. Shanks didn’t think about Benn reaching over and feeding that mouthful to him with a kiss.

Benn passed the flask open once he’s licked his bottom lip clean.

“Cheers to that, hm?” Shanks liked the agreement in invisible ink: _e_ _verything you want._

* * *

Shanks turned the vibrator off. Then he turned it back on again, bright appreciable pulses that startled Marco back into consciousness again with a cry. Then he turned it down to the low buzzing of just the single, smallest bead.

And when Marco’s motions gained a bit too much strength, they dosed him with the drug again.

At one point Shanks plopped himself flat beside Marco and pulled Marco’s head up. Waited until Marco’s pupils focused. Kissed a mouthful of water between raw feverish lips.

“Hey,” he murmured, “can you take more?”

Not _how are you doing_ , a question that would be too difficult to answer for Marco at this point. Not _are you okay_ , because this wasn’t about being okay, Marco never came to Shanks to feel just ‘okay.’

Not _do you want to rest_ , because of course he did, but neither Shanks nor Marco would want such an easy out. Marco, this far gone, liked to say _yes_ far more than he liked to say _no_.

Marco said yes.

Benn rolled onto his front, pinning Marco more effectively with his height and bulk while he reached down between Marco’s legs. Once Marco grunted from the pressure around his cock, it was Shanks’ turn to reach down, and turn all the beads to their highest vibration setting.

With a breathless cry Marco arched off the bed, gaze immediately misting and listing off to the side. Shanks rolled over too, catching Marco against his chest by the front of Marco’s neck, squeezed until he could hear each breath coming in a wheeze, could strangle each overstimulated scream before they’re fully vocalized. In between, underneath; no surface breaking, only violent thrumming.

Benn was squeezing Marco tight too—by the base of the cock. Shanks had made that decision out of consideration for the many times Marco had already been made to come earlier that evening. Marco would just have to suffer this dry.

And suffer he did. Two strong men like Shanks and Benn were more than enough to hold Marco still through the painful, _painful_ convulsions of two dry orgasms. Marco’s shaking was violent, and by the time Shanks signaled for Benn to turn the vibrations off and gently lowered Marco back onto the bed, Marco’s face was red and wet with stray saliva and tears.

His voice hitched into a ragged whimper when Shanks held the drug-soaked cloth to his face again. Carefully pulling his hand aside, Shanks kissed and licked at Marco’s cheeks until he got the man’s hazy attention again.

“If you really want to be out of it for the next part,” he said with a sympathetic peck on Marco’s nose, “then you’ll definitely need this.”

Marco’s lips parted and closed around the same words, trying to parse their meaning. Shanks waited patiently until Marco finally processed it, then held the piece of cloth back out.

With a fresh trail of tears squeezed from his eyes, Marco arched his neck and pressed his face into Shanks’ palm.

Getting up from the bed, they let Marco’s body go mostly slack again, before pulling out the anal beads one section at a time. Their unhurried speed still left Marco gaping, his rim struggling to tighten back up again. Come and lubricant leaked out sluggishly.

Benn looked to Shanks for instructions, but it wasn’t a clean slate of possibilities in front of them. They’d talked and planned this out after all, and there was a reason what was coming next was coming next. Benn’s glance asked, do you want to come in him again before we get the next toy out?

After carefully thinking through what he and Benn could realistically achieve this evening (even with the help of what they’d drank earlier), Shanks shook his head no, and gestured at the coffee table.

The wand Benn placed in his hand was maybe two fingers thick with a smooth taper—nothing crazy. It was long, sure, but Shanks wasn’t planning on inserting the entire thing into Marco. Only a bit at the tip. That was the most important part after all.

“Want me to hold him?” Benn asked, eyeing Marco’s legs.

“Probably a good idea,” Shanks replied, with a laugh that earned him a fond hair-ruffle before Benn moved to grip Marco’s ankles.

Shanks eased the tip of the wand into Marco’s hole, and waited again for Marco to settle. Benn’s thumbs were swiping back and forth along Marco’s calf muscles, and Shanks watched until all the tension eased from underneath the motion.

Then he thumbed on the wand switch to start the electrical current.

Just like with the vibrations, Marco flinched upright again, a hoarse yell ripped from his throat. It wasn’t a particularly _strong_ current, but it was enough to make visible Marco’s thigh muscles jumping from every pulse. Benn’s hold proved necessary, as it probably prevented Marco from socking Shanks hard and right in the crotch.

Shanks had absolutely been electrocuted before, under a variety of circumstances; of course he’s tested the wand on himself. He knew the zap at the start that felt bright white, the cracking open of pain that followed after. He also knew the build of heat if he left it running against skin, the threat of immolation making the nerves scream faster.

He held the tip of the wand right up against Marco’s prostate and kept it there, counting down from five. Too much in shock (ah) to react more fully, Marco tensed, but otherwise just kept still and took the stimulus in its entirety.

When Shanks released his hold on the switch, Marco gave one more twitch. The way he slumped had less to do with actual relaxation than the drug still wreaking havoc on his motor control. When Marco had demanded Shanks _say more yoi_ before, Shanks had described what he imagined—this very sight. The image of a helpless, cracked apart Marco, so beautifully broken yet lewdly spread.

Then Marco, face buried in the pillow, started shaking in turbulent, violent hitches.

Benn was on it in an instant, while Shanks got a knee up on the bed to press against Marco’s in barebones support. Knowing better than to make any sudden movements with the wand (not while Marco was clenching so hard), Shanks waited. Benn had very gently turned Marco’s head to the side to help him breathe better, and was now smoothing two large palms down the stretch of Marco’s back. Again and again, as if reminding them how to ease.

A cup of water was still on the bedside table, within easy reach for Benn. Shanks rather enjoyed the sight of Benn’s wide mouth slotting against Marco’s, the sensuous coordination of tongue and lips to feed the water to Marco. One of Benn’s hands dived to rub at Marco’s chest. The other laid over the nape of Marco’s neck like a warm blanket.

It took two mouthfuls of water for Shanks to feel the tension in the legs around him easing. Accordingly, Shanks eased out the wand, and let it hang loose from his grip. With Benn’s coordination above, Marco was gently turned onto his back.

Chest rising and falling in an unsteady, but at least slowed tempo, Marco’s gaze was more or less lucid (that Phoenix fruit truly was an incredible thing) when Shanks walked into his range of vision. It wasn’t angry, and it wasn’t contrite. It was _sleepy_ , exhausted even, but still somehow bright enough to be waiting.

So Shanks swung the wand back upright, waving the tip of it, wet with come, in Marco’s face.

“If you promise not to kick me, Benn can fuck your mouth,” Shanks declared. He hit the switch, and through the air, all three of them could feel the course of electricity through the wand. “Just one more time should do.”

And they repositioned Marco again. Without the help of additional drugs this time, Marco’s head fell back over the edge of the bed, eyes closed and mouth open. Benn’s cock on his tongue was a reward—the one piece of chocolate given before the task, with the promise of another to follow after completion. Shanks pushed apart Marco’s legs with the wand turned off, and snickered each time Marco jumped when he felt the touch of tip to skin.

Inserting the wand was met with a little more pressure this time, because the electricity had gotten Marco to tighten. Benn was good to them like that, ordering the sequence of events this way.

 _Ready?_ Shanks didn’t ask as he positioned the wand against Marco’s prostate once more. Marco’s cock had gone a bit soft in the interim, but now that Benn was holding Marco open by the jaw to feed his cock between the lips, Marco was rapidly filling out again. Shanks let Benn set a good rhythm first, let Benn fuck the gagging noise out of Marco’s throat, before meeting Benn’s eyes.

Benn grinned, so Shanks hit the switch.

The point of getting Benn in Marco’s mouth was that Marco wouldn’t bite down. He could tense, but he wouldn’t bite. So he’d have to hold onto some control of his body, burning off the effect of the drug to keep his jaw from snapping shut, keep his throat open when Benn thrusted in, and _stayed_ in.

Then Shanks let the current run. It took more than a five-count this time, and Marco’s hands fisted at his side were beginning to twitch more and more, looking like they wanted so badly not to tap out, not to break free, not to ever come out from under the smother of Benn’s dick choking him and Shanks’ wand pulsing current and current and current right against his most sensitive—

Semen came shooting out from Marco’s cock, sharp white streaks of it painting his chest. Shanks kept the wand running for one more second, before turning it off and _grinding_ it up, hard against the prostate. When Marco vocalized (in pain in pleasure in _pain_ ), Benn just held onto his chin and pushed in further, until Shanks could hear his struggle to breathe loud and _wet_ from the other side of the bed. Until Benn couldn’t take it anymore and, with one, two, three more thrusts, ejaculated down Marco’s throat.

Shanks pulled the wand out and tossed it to the side. Hand now free, he could reach over, fist Marco’s cock in a none-too-gentle grip, and _milk_ upwards. He pushed a puddle more of come from Marco, and Marco convulsed up with a tired, sobbing yell. Tried to curl into himself in the fetal position on the bed.

Shanks didn’t let him. He grabbed Marco by the far shoulder, pushed Marco back onto his belly, and had himself lying flat on top of Marco with his cock lined up in two seconds flat.

“Marco,” Shanks panted into his ear as he thrust in, pace rude. Marco was _crying_ , eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted trying so hard to just take what Shanks was dishing out. Benn’s come marked the sides of his mouth, around his cheeks. “There’s one more thing on the table, if you want to take it.”

“ _Fuck,_ Shanks—” Marco’s voice was pretty much gone, and Shanks felt himself twitch at the sound. Chased faster after the peak. “—I can’t—I don’t—”

“It’s a fucking machine,” Shanks kept speaking, working and working and _working_ his hips because Marco felt so utterly strengthless underneath him. No protest no tension, just the sweet and easy glide of his dick inside that worked-over heat. No more pleasure to wring from Marco because he’s already been wrung completely empty. Yet Shanks kept wringing anyways. “We’ll spread you open and cuff you down and just let the machine go. So when you sleep it’s still fucking you and when you wake up it’s still fucking you. And while you’re asleep, whenever we want, we’d tap out the machine and fuck you ourselves. And every time you wake up there’s just a bit more come being fucked out of you by the machine. Would you like that? Wouldn’t you love that?”

Marco already looked _unconscious_ , eyes rolling back and mouth moving around indiscernible words. As the last of the drug truly left Marco’s system, a little ring of gold fire appeared on Marco’s shoulder. The cigarette burn.

Shanks pressed his thumbnail _into_ the burn, into the fire. Marco uttered one last pathetic cry, and Shanks came.

“Do you want the plug again?” Shanks breathed over the healed skin where the burn had been mere moments ago. Marco didn’t answer, _couldn’t_ answer.

With a soft breathless chuckle, Shanks pulled himself up. Big hands were immediately there to settle him into lying beside Marco, and start swiping at his soft dick with a clean towel.

“Fuck,” Shanks yawned, laughing quietly as Benn cleaned off his hand. Flung open the folded comforter that’s been set aside in anticipation of the mess they’d make of the bed. “Thanks Benn. That was good work.”

“I’ll come back and wash him again,” Benn decided, after toweling the worst off of Marco. But there was still all the renewed mess inside. “In the morning.”

“In like, two hours?” Shanks snorted. “Don’t worry about it, I can—”

“Captain,” Benn interrupted, coming to a stern stop beside Shanks. Shanks just stared back. “No hospitality between us, remember?”

“Ah, well in that case, I expect to wake up in a bubble bath jacuzzi.”

“Done,” Benn said back, calling Shanks’ bluff with one of his own. Shanks was a straightforward man though, and saw the eventuality for what it was.

“You spoil me, you know that?”

Benn’s lips touched the top of his head, and for a moment, Shanks could only blink. They were all pirates and rule-breakers sure, but that wasn’t— _Benn_ has never—

Benn met him at eye level with a sheepish, but sorry-not-sorry smirk. Lit a cigarette.

“You spoil me too, Captain. I’ll see you in two hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: somnophilia, drugged sex, overstimulation, vibrating anal plugs, electroplay (direct insertion & stimulation of the prostate), prostate milking via electricity, gagging and choking via oral sex, intentional cigarette burn to the shoulder during sex. It could be construed that Marco has a bit of a panic attack in the middle, but it's quickly eased and doesn't have lasting impact on the scene.
> 
> This really was just a result of Peak Horny.
> 
> Leave a comment!! :')

**Author's Note:**

> gay baby jail couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> Thank you mesolelot for reminding me of Hozier's thottiest song for the title.
> 
> my [tumblr](https://touchmycoat.tumblr.com/), where i take requests but also get sidetracked by nearly 8k words of filthy porn skjdfksd


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